Human Error
by HighFunctioningSmaug
Summary: ((Teenlock/Johnlock)) Sherlock has one of his frequent nightmares again. But it isn't like the other ones. He sees a boy; a boy who has never been noticed by Sherlock despite how he notices everyone. Between family problems, bullies, and loss, Sherlock is stuck on the one mystery he cannot solve; John. (Rated T for strong language & mild scenes)
1. The Boy

**(A/N)**

**Yes hello there. Thank you for actually taking your time into reading this. Erm I deeply apologise for any tears shed, pervy giggles, and possible squealing in public. I also warn you that I don't even know if this is considered a good fanfic or not bc idek. I'll probably take any criticism or whatever bc I want to improve it but yes enjoy it anyways.**

**Sherlock's POV**

Their words began echoing through my head.  
_"Freak"_  
_"Smart arse"_  
_"What a fucking loser"_  
I felt my eyes getting blurry.  
I struggled to scream for them to stop, but no matter how hard I tried, nothing came out of my mouth.  
Nothing but pathetic gasps for help.  
They continued laughing and pointing.  
I scanned through the crowd, glancing at the familiar faces; Sally, Phillip, and even Mycroft.  
Rows and rows of well-known kids circled in front of me, cornering me into the lockers.  
Panicked, I hit my back against them and observed that everyone stopped laughing and pointing.  
My eyes widened. _Shit. What did I do now?_  
I was flustered and stood there awkwardly amidst the rest of the students. I tried shifting my feet, for at least one clue of what was going on. With that, I heard the sound of plastic against the unswept tiles of the hallway. I looked down alerted, to see that I just kicked an orange pill bottle towards a stout little boy. I hit my locker.  
Frantically, I backed away to see that I was standing among several empty pill bottles.  
My heart sank.  
_Fuck. Now not only are you a freak, but you're also a druggie. Great fucking job, Sherlock._  
Something slowly tapped my shoulder, causing me to almost jump.  
I turned around to see the boy. He was at least a head shorter than me, so I had to glance down to look into his eyes. He was holding up the pill bottle that rolled to his feet.  
He didn't say a word. He just looked at me with his big, bright eyes. He didn't seem like everyone else. His looks were much more melancholy and serene.  
Hypnostised by his daze , I reached down to claim the bottle he held in his hand.  
That's when everything got dizzy. I lost my balance and tried hard to reach the patient boy.  
Everything got blurry and unclear as I found myself desperately gasping for breath.

I woke up in my own sweat. A nightmare. Again.  
_ Nightmares are just dreams that occur during REM sleep that can affect the victim with a feeling of anxiety, paranoia, and/or stress. Waking up from these nightmares often leads to an increased heart rate._  
I recited this in my mind. I also recalled that nightmares are just ideas that most humans have no control over because of the thoughts in their brains that overrule the urge to fight against it.  
So, clearly, despite my pulse and current anxiety or confusion, I was never affected by these nightmares.  
I sighed and rolled over to see Redbeard sitting beside me with concern. I gave him a hug that may have comforted me more than it comforted him.  
Hesitantly, I slipped out of bed to hear the voice of my annoying brother.  
"Oh, Sherlock!" He yelled from downstairs. I was usually forced to sleep in the attic, but I was isolated, so I never complained. "You're going to be late for school again!" He said sarcastically as he headed out the door out to his stupid private school.  
I groaned in reply and changed into our school uniform. As I fixed my tie, I thought about the boy in my dream. I hadn't ever seen him before and he was never part of that reoccurring nightmare. I concentrated on the image of him in my head. He had fairly large eyes when he looked up so solemnly. That was basically all I got to see of him in the dream. It was basically almost impossible for an unfamiliar face to occur in a dream. However, I had never seen this boy in my life. I was sure I had never seen him. I see _everybody._ He couldn't have just slipped away from my sight so many times. So why was he in my dream?  
I sighed and walked out the door, grabbing my bag as I went.  
Mum and Dad were rarely home so I didn't need to deal with being forced to eat breakfast and dinner. Eating was boring and it slowed me down. I had been approached several times just to be asked whether or not I was anorexic. One girl, Molly Hooper (age 14, uninteresting) had been oddly interested in me. She probably fancied me too. It was quite unnecessary to feel an emotion of love. Especially in the first year of high school. I classified myself as aromantic because the boring people didn't quite understand that their idea of "love" was just a concept made up in their minds. However, Molly still often asked me how I was, despite my effort to ignore all social interactions.  
That didn't quite matter at this point after I deduced that her boyfriend had cheated on her with her best friend. I don't believe she has ever talked to me since. Or maybe she has. I may have just stopped paying attention after she went on and on about her dull life.  
The bus halted to a stop in front of me. The chaos and roughhousing immediately ceased after I boarded this crappy excuse for a school bus.  
Everyone stopped and stared, waiting for me to sit down. I paid no attention to them and sat in my usual seat up front.  
I felt them all glaring from behind me. I sighed and turned towards the window, impatiently waiting for the bus to finally get to school. As the bus jerked to continue on its route, I noticed a distant figure running up from behind it. I sat up straight to get a better view of who it was. I was always the only person who waited on this bus stop. He was an awfully fast runner and almost caught up with the bus's speed. He was wearing a pale beanie that looked like it was going to slip off.  
_"Stop!"_ I found myself shouting to the driver. Reluctantly, the bus halted, pushing me back into my seat.  
The bus driver (his name was Joseph) had to obey me, for I knew he used to be a rapist. Of course, the ordinary people just think I was going to use their secrets against them. I really couldn't care less.  
The boy finally caught up, surprisingly not out of breath. He wore baggy jeans. Or at least they seemed baggy because of his height. He was about 15, so I expect he's a new student, considering that I'd never seen him before.  
He calmly walked into the bus and awkwardly sat next to me. I hope he doesn't expect us to be "friends". I shuddered at that word.  
I glanced at him, trying to deduce more about him. I caught myself staring into his eyes. His eyes. They were round and gloomy. Gloomy, yet hopeful. A loud gasp escaped my mouth. He was The Boy. The Boy from my nightmare.


	2. William Sherlock Scott Holmes

**(A/N)**

**I'm probably only going to post the rest of the fanfic if enough people like it idk. I mean im not asking for 47839584 views or smth. I just want to know whether people will actually read it, you feel me? **

**Mkay bye and enjoy thanks.**

**John's POV**

I avoided contact with the boy who sat next to me. I believe his name was Sherlock Holmes. A lot of teachers called him William, whilst the students called him a freak. I thought about just looking at his appearance, but he didn't seem to want to be bothered. I looked down at my dusty shoes uneasily. The bus was awfully loud. Louder than usual, anyways. Today was a bad day to forget my headphones. I sighed.

I couldn't help but peer at him from the corner of my eye. He was looking straight at me. I gulped and turned towards him.

My eyes widened on how differently I pictured him versus how he actually looked. His face was so thin and pale. You'd mistake him for a corpse if it weren't for his eyes. They were a mix of several different colours. They were like a canvas abstractly painted by an artist. There was a blend of blues, greens, and greys. His dark hair curled around his gaunt features. The sun from behind him made his tips seem a slight amber or brown.

"Hello." I finally said, cautiously. I awaited an answer (for quite a while, to be honest). We just sat there staring at each other for what seemed like hours.

"Erm...uhm...hi." He finally replied. He fidgeted in the seat. I could tell he wasn't very good at making friends.

"My name's John." I beamed. I tried to make this whole "communication" thing easier for him.

"Uhm, Sherlock." His voice was much deeper than mine, and probably a whole lot clearer too.

"-I know." I blurted. This seemed to have confused him. He didn't seem to talk very much. I wonder why...

Before either of us could say another word, the bus finally stopped in front of the school. This broke our gaze. Ungracefully, I picked up my battered backpack and headed out the bus, trying my best not to look back. I felt as if I irked him somehow. One part of me wanted to go back and apologise while the other part told me that I had done enough. I checked my watch.8:15. I had five minutes to reach my locker and get to my first class; history.

Our history teacher, , was waiting beside the classroom's door.

"Good morning, John." He'd always say to me. I nodded in reply. He was a fairly kind teacher, especially compared to Miss Fearon. Rumours say that her late husband was murdered and a lot of people believed she did it. But really, in my opinion, she was just an extremely grouchy and sour maths teacher who was around her mid-40's. She probably couldn't hurt a fly.

I took a seat in the far left corner of the room, isolated from the rest of the students. Everyone had assigned seats, which meant that Sherlock would be six rows ahead of me. Sherlock noticed a lot of things, whether it was about the students, , or just history itself. He'd point out every single detail of everyone the class, except for me (probably because I was out of his view and naturally talented in going unnoticed). I thought it was pretty interesting, but it seemed to make anxious and the students were full of disgust (and sometimes even tears).

Once everyone was situated into their designated seats, shut the door and begun taking attendance.

"Amanda?"

"Here."

"Ronald?"

"Present."

"William?"

"Sorry."

"Excuse me?"

I sat up in my seat to see what was going on. Being short really had its disadvantages.

"First of all, I'd prefer it if you called me Sherlock. Also, sorry for your loss. I believe your girlfriend died this weekend-" The class's groans interrupted him. "As I was saying, how are you taking it?" he added sarcastically.

"She was not my girlfriend, and I'd rather you keep your mouth shut, -" He started sweating a lot, which gleamed in the room's lights.

"Of course she wasn't your girlfriend." He stood up from his desk as a lot of snickering came from the students. "She was a prostitute. She was frequently _your _prostitute, am I correct?"

" !-" He started to raise his voice, which immediately stopped everyone's private conversations.

"-Sherlock, please. And may I ask; is your wife aware of your _'affairs'_-"

" ! Go to the principal's office immediately!" 's face reddened. One of his veins began to pop out right on his forehead. You could almost see the steam coming out of his ears.

As Sherlock was leaving the classroom calmly, he looked back and his eyes shifted onto where I was sitting. All the other students had been scowling at him, but he didn't move. He just stood in the doorway, staring at me. I stared back, unsure of what exactly to do in a time like this. Smirking at me, he turned away and slammed the door shut as he left.

_ Or at least I think he smirked..._


	3. A Bustle in a House

**Sherlock's****POV**

"Mr. Holmes! Go to the principal's office immediately!" Professor Vanquin's face was dripping with sweat. He wasn't very good at keeping secrets, considering that he left his wedding ring at home, exactly where his wife would see it.

I rolled my eyes and began to storm out the classroom, but something caught my eye. I froze in the doorway to look to my left. It was him again. The Boy. He wasn't a new student, however. If he was, Professor Vanquin would immediately introduce him before taking attendance. Then how have I never seen him before?

He rose in his chair, clearly curious into finding out what was going on. He actually seemed oddly entertained rather than disgusted or bored like the others. I smirked at him, recognizing his consideration and interest in my deduction skills.

Slamming the door behind me, I strolled through the halls until I reached the school's office. As I entered, the secretary (Gloria Jones, 39, unmarried, uninteresting) greeted me, as usual.

"Welcome back, William-" she began, not looking up from her computer.

"My name is Sherlock just as much as it is William, Miss Jones." I corrected. She sighed and signaled for me to take a seat. I walked over coolly and plopped down into the third chair. She got up and entered Headmaster Pear's (Wallace Pear, 43, married, uninteresting) office.

"He's here again, sir." I heard her whisper. She popped her head out of the room to beckon me in. With a sigh, I got up and entered the room. Miss Jones shut the door behind her as she left.

"William-" I opened my mouth to correct him. "I mean, Sherlock, you can't keep ruining the reputations of your professors. Just listen to them, and please, stop acting out in class."

"Why?" He looked awfully puzzled at this question, as if no one ever asked him why students _had _to listen to professors.

"Because they're you're professors, of course."

"So?"

"So, they have authority over you."

"But why must they have authority over _me?_ Can't they just occupy themselves with the other students?"

"They aren't going to pick favourites, Sherlock." I sighed at the simplicity of his narrow mind.

"They don't have to like me. They just have to leave me alone."

He began sorting some of the papers on his desk. "Sherlock, just go home today. I don't want to keep seeing you in my office. It's only November and you've already been here about 16 times-"

"-17 times."

"Just go home for today, Sherlock." he exhaled desperately as he sent me out.

But I couldn't go home. Mycroft left school early, and I'd probably be in a shit ton of trouble if he saw that I skipped school. It was terribly chilly outside, but I eventually learned how to ignore the weather. I grabbed my books from my locker and walked out of the school, the breeze hitting against my neck. I put up my coat collar and sat on the steps, laying my books down beside me. Swiftly, I opened my notebook to where I left off writing. I wrote quite a lot of poems, but I couldn't bring them to school because I was already considered enough of a weirdo. Thus, I just recited poems for what normal people call "amusement". Pulling out a pen from my coat pocket, I continued writing:

_The Bustle in a House- Emily Dickinson_

_The bustle in a house_  
_The morning after death_  
_Is solemnest of industries_  
_Enacted upon earth._

_The sweeping up the heart_  
_And putting love away_  
_We shall not want to use again_  
_Until eternity._


	4. Anxiety

**John's POV**

The final bell rang, signaling that it was finally time to go home. I packed up all my books into my torn bag and thought I ended up being the first person to leave the building.  
But I was wrong. Sherlock had been the first to leave the building. He was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed as if he was sleeping in this frosty weather.  
"Erm, Sherlock?" I tried to get his attention sheepishly, just so I could warn him about the stampede of people about to burst from the school and possibly crush him.  
He showed no sign of apprehension, no matter how often I'd call his name.  
I started to worry on whether he was dead or not. _Would I be blamed for his death because I was the only one at the scene? How was I going to explain to my parents that I didn't kill him? How many years would I be forced to stay in jail?_

Anxiously, I approached him to see him breathing. I sighed of relief, leaving a gust of warm air in front of my nose. At least I wasn't going to jail for homicide. I tapped him on the shoulder frantically. _I sure hope he didn't faint.__Or worse,__**freeze.**_

He opened his eyes and looked up, dumbfounded and startled. Frightened, I backed away, almost tripping over my own feet.  
"How long have you been here?!" he snapped.  
"Well, it's been about five minutes, I guess-"  
He stood up promptly, picking up his books from the floor.  
"What, erm, what were you doing here?" I finally asked.  
"Mind palace." he answered simply.  
"Mind palace?"  
"Yes, it's where I can finally get some peace and quiet away from people like you." he barked.  
"Oh, uhm, sorry..." I bashfully looked at my same filthy, untied shoes, hoping he'd say something he's strike the conversation up again with an apology. However, after a moment, I felt his luminous eyes glaring at me. I could almost feel him mentally watching me leave. Uncomfortably, I turned back and headed towards the bus. I hadn't even noticed that most of the students left the building, but I presume they just avoided us on their way out.

Just as I took one step off the curb to hop into the bus, a tug came from the edge of my shoes, causing me to almost collapse forward right at the steps of the school bus. I tightly shut my eyes, awaiting my immediate death. Every noise around me was now overlooked . There was no way of avoiding this now. This was how I'd die. (I admit, I was somewhat overreacting, but I read enough physic textbooks to know that the way I had fallen was going to lead to some kind of fatal injury, if not death)

At this point, I caught myself gasping for air. I don't believe it was because of my sudden death incident. It was as if something had grabbed ahold of my lungs and used them to pull me back. I landed on my back with a thud and a groan. After my eyes readjusted to the light, I desperately struggled to get off the ground, but something still held me back. Too much had happened all in one single moment, causing anxiety and panic to run through my veins. After a few deep breaths, I took into full consideration what had just happened. I peered behind me to see Sherlock observing me. He was naturally tall, but when I was on the floor, he was towering over me. He remained expressionless as if nothing even happened. My neck began to ache from looking upward at Sherlock's sharp facial features. I deliberately got up from the pavement, a pain soaring through my leg.

"_Fuck" _And with that, I fell right back down to where I started.

"Do you, uhm, want some help?" Sherlock said sheepishly. "I mean, do you _need _ some help?" I nodded in reply.

He held out his hand and pulled me up, quickly but cautiously. He put my arm around his shoulder, which didn't work out well considering the great height difference. He didn't seem to notice how I struggled to put some of my weight on him.

"Sherlock?" I began, wincing from the ache. He looked up. We were in a rather uncomfortable situation. He tried holding on to me while I frantically tried to not fall back down. "If we're going to move together, you need to work with me." He realised that I was implying our current situation. Trying to readjust my position, he let me lay on the floor. However, he was a bit confused on what to do, to say the least.

A powerful jolt of agony began running up and down my wound. The pain in my leg grew stronger until it was on the verge of going numb. I moaned unwillingly and dreadfully loudly. Sherlock hopelessly tried to pick me off the ground, but his unlimited knowledge wasn't paying off at this point. My vision blurred as I slowly began sinking into Sherlock's desperate arms. Muffled voices rang in my ears. I recognized Sherlock's faint voice, joining in with the other dim cries. I clenched my jaw, trying hard not to concentrate on the pain that continued to sear through my leg. All the sounds began ringing in my ears, leaving an inaudible echo in my head. The pain in my leg, the clamour around me, everything was just too overwhelming. I was fatigued and weak. I just needed to close my eyes for a few seconds.

Just a few seconds.


	5. The Genius & the Wallflower

**Sherlock's POV**

_Fuck. What the hell was I supposed to do now?! I didn't know how to care for anyone. Caring was just never my area. But I had to. It was simple physics that he was going to trip and fall right on the bus's stairs. I just planned on grabbing him to inform him about how he should become more alert of physics. I just planned on bragging. But now, not only was I forced to save him from a near-death incident, but I probably broke his fucking leg. _

The nurse walked out of the infirmary, diverting me from my thoughts.

"Mr. Holmes?" she confirmed. She was in her mid-30's. An unhappily married serial adulterer. Her name was written on her uniform. _Jenny McCraggin_. I stood up, still analysing her. "Your friend, um, John, he's just woken up. You can go in and talk to him, but try not to strain him, alright?"

"He's not my friend." I corrected. She exhaled and held open the door for the infirmary. "I'll leave you two alone." And with an artificial smile, she left.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John called sluggishly from the far corner of the room. I advance towards his bed. Thoughts swam around in my head. _How was I supposed to tell him that I didn't purposely try to break his leg? _Deliberately, I sat down on the chair next to where he lay, his leg held up by a sling.

He tried to sit up, but the sling prohibited him from moving anywhere. "Thanks," he said simply. I looked at him, furrowing my brow.

"Thanks for what?"

He laughed at my response. But it wasn't like the smile the nurse gave to me. It wasn't the uncomfortable giggles given by my mum and dad's friends after I'd deduce them. John's laugh was a genuine laugh. It was a laugh that could not only be heard, but also _seen_. You could tell that his laugh was honest just by looking into his eyes.

"You know, for a genius, you can be pretty negligent," he beamed.

"A _genius_?" I caught myself saying aloud.

He nodded, rather reluctantly. "Yeah, of course. No one else could understand people like you do. I mean, how did you know Professor Vanquin hired a prostitute? No one else could guess these things but you."

_Was he actually interested in how I deducted people? He wasn't calling me any names so far (other than genius, which really didn't count). _"I don't 'guess', John. I deduce," I paused to see him looking at me attentively, "I look at all their details. Uhm, for example, with Professor Vanquin. He usually wears his wedding ring to school, but not that day. Also, there was no indentation by his ring finger. Thus, it's frequently removed. He doesn't do anything requiring rough labour, which is obvious by his complexion. So, it's removed for somebody, not something. The prostitute thing was a shot in the dark, but it was a good one though. Her death was obvious. He had dark circles around his eyes, not from crying, but because he was sleep-deprived. He wouldn't skip work because of her death, because that would be suspicious towards his wife. He wasn't upset by the death, which meant it wasn't his wife in the first place. Thus, dead prostitute that remains a secret from his wife."

John stared at me in awe. _Fuck, now he'd call me a freak too. Dammit, Sherlock, why do you always have to be so full of yourself? _

"That was," he paused as I gulped for any judgment he'd lay upon me, "amazing. It was absolutely fantastic. And you knew all of that just by looking at him?"

I nodded, still in shock because of his praises.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John frowned.

"Yes, I'm fine. It's just that not many people think of me like that."

"I know. They call you a freak and everything. But you're really not, Sherlock. You're just different. But that doesn't make you any less human than the rest of us," he paused to readjust himself on the bed. "People usually don't like anything that's different. They think everything different can lead to something bad. But they're wrong, Sherlock. Sometimes it's the different ones that make the exceptional impacts on the world."

We stared at each other for a while, examining each other's facial expressions. Finally, John broke the silence.

"What happened to your wrist?" we both glanced down. It had been unnecessarily wrapped up and taken care of by one of the nurses who came with the ambulance I phoned.

"It's only a sprain. I fell down on it. The nurse insisted to get it tended. It's truly useless because I don't tend to react to pain and I have a tendency to heal quickly." This, of course, was because of how often I'd get bullied as a child. But I wasn't going to tell him that. There was no need to.

The faint echo of high heels hitting the tile floor approached us. It was the same nurse, _Jenny McCraggin_.

"Sorry boys, but John needs his rest, and I believe you should head home now, young man," she pointed her eyes towards me. "It's almost 11. On the other hand, John is going to have to stay here for about two days," she turned to John again. "Would you like to call your parents and have 'em accompany you tonight?"

John was hesitant, but then he just simply nodded.

"Great, I'll bring you your phone and you can call them right away," she strutted out the door, leaving John and I alone once again.

I rose from the cheap hospital chair, straightening my coat. I expected to leave without saying a word. It had been an awful day already. I'd probably just make everything worse even with a simple "good bye". I don't know what people want and don't want me to say. Sensing feelings wasn't one of my abilities. But maybe John _wanted_ me to say good bye. God, socializing was so frustrating and pointless.

"Hey, Sherlock?" I reached the infirmary's doors by this point, but I was reasonably curious to hear what he was going to say next. "Thanks for saving my life today... I hope your wrist gets better."

I was ready to open my mouth to reply when the nurse came back. "Oh, sorry, hun. Here," she held the door open for me, and with that, I left without saying a word.


	6. Affection & Rivalry

**John's POV**

The nurse handed me my mobile phone and assisted me in sitting upright. She refrained from talking and left the room, leaving me alone in the silence.

I wasn't going to call Mum or Dad. They couldn't be in the same room together without starting a fight. And if I invited one, eventually the news would be heard by the other parent, and then there'd be another dispute between them. I decided to call Harriet. She was basically the only one who understood this, and she was willing to comfort me whenever I had needed it. So I gave her a ring. At first she didn't answer, which was typical of her. I dialed the number again. This time she picked up.

"Hello? John? Is everything okay at Mum's place?" she answered with her reassuring voice, as usual.

"Yeah, everything's fine, Harry. Listen, erm, I'm at the hospital-"

"The hospital? John, are you okay? What's happened?"

"No, no, I'm fine, really. It's just a broken leg, I think. Are you, erm, busy?"

"Of course not. Which hospital are you at? I'll be right there."

"I think I'm at Bart's. But you don't have to come if you're unavailable. I'm much better now."

"John, I'm always going to be here for you, okay? Stay cool, little Hammy. I'll be there in a few," she chuckled and hung up.

She often called me Hammy because of my middle name. She never let me live through having the middle name of 'Hamish'.

I eventually decided to play on my cell as I awaited her arrival.

**3****rd**** Person POV**

Sherlock was worried. Although he often avoided feelings, his brother was much better at it, and he knew he'd get scolded for showing that he cared. He didn't plan on "caring". It just sort of, happened. But Mycroft wouldn't have understood him. Sherlock knew that he screwed up. And he screwed up badly.

Once Sherlock finally reached their house, he desperately tried to escape into his room. This, of course, even he knew, wouldn't work. Mycroft had all eyes and ears all around the house. If he heard one creaky floorboard, he'd appear right behind you, almost immediately. But what else do you expect when you're forced to live alone and take care of your little brother from the dangers of London? Mycroft often showed neither sympathy nor affection towards Sherlock, or anyone, to be precise. He believed that caring was a weak point in everyone, thus, he simply chose to avoid it. However, caring was just in human nature. Mycroft was merely just an expert at hiding it. He spent years and years teaching Sherlock how to avoid getting any emotions or feeling sentiment.

"Sentiment is the human error," he'd always say. "Avoid it, and you'll be superior towards the weak."

This of course, wasn't what he always thought. He was seven years older than Sherlock, which allowed him to become much more experienced before Sherlock grew older.

At around his first year of secondary school, Mycroft had already been through many friends. They'd all promise to stick with him until the end. They planned on sharing flats together and starting international charity campaigns all around the world. They were just hopeless kids, planning for their future without any care in the world.

One day, (specifically November 1st), his closest friends had gone out to eat some ice cream after class. There, he had met a lovely girl around his age. Her name was Charlotte. She had a pale complexion; however, she had deep, vivid green eyes and freckles to make up for it. Her hair was orange and silky, reaching down to her hip. She was just as sweet as pie and pleasantly generous. To everyone, she was perfection in human form. However, to Mycroft, she was absolutely charming. Despite all his close friendships he had at that time, Mycroft had reserved a special place in his heart for Charlotte. As a matter of fact, the special place is still reserved for her. However, it is now long lost in his heart, along with any other emotions he packed away.

After a few weeks of an intimate friendships, they had become much more than friends. Charlotte had become Mycroft's whole life. She was always on his mind, and there was no way of getting her out of it. They began to frequently stick around each other until they were practically inseparable. Anything remarkable that they did; they did together like two peas in a pod.

It had been about 18 months, to the point where it now started to bug their friends too. Nevertheless, their whole 'clique' had assembled together one night just as a little "get together". As young teenagers, they enjoyed silly little games such as 'Truth or Dare'. This, however, was an absolute mistake once it had gotten to Charlotte's turn.

"_Okay, Charlotte, truth or dare?" asked one of the boys (whose name was Alan)._

"_Um, dare!" answered Charlotte bravely._

"_Okay, well, um, I know! I dare you to tell Mycroft our secret!" he began giggling as everyone stared in anticipation._

_Charlotte's eyes bolted, but she knew she had to do it. It was all part of the rules, of course._

"_Well, uhm, Mycroft," her sweet voice stammered, "please don't get mad, okay? Well, um, Alan and I, well, we…um… we've been dating secretly for about 14 months."_

_Mycroft stared back at her, unable to reply. 'They're probably just pulling a prank on me' Mycroft thought reassuringly._

_But they weren't. They had been dead serious._

"_I'm really sorry, Mike, but it's over between us. "She added. And those were the last words he ever heard from her melodic voice ever again._

After he had been through such a bitter and intense heartbreak, Mycroft had to find a way to prevent his little brother from experiencing the same sorrow as he once did. Sherlock was born as an exceptionally intelligent child, so it was simple to teach him to avoid these emotions. Sherlock was only around six years of age, so he was unaware of what happened to his brother, causing him to lock himself up in his room for hours. Mycroft was like a father figure to Sherlock, so he willingly listened and obeyed him for years. However, at times, although Sherlock didn't admit it, he found life a lot more challenging. At times, he wished that he was just normal for once. But Mycroft was only protecting Sherlock. He didn't plan on making his life much more troublesome. He didn't want Sherlock experiencing what he had been through. Mycroft didn't want to see his little brother hurt.

**Sherlock's POV**

Frantically, I unlocked the door knob to my bedroom, desperately hoping that Mycroft had not heard me enter the flat.

"Isn't it a bit late, _little brother?_" Mycroft's dull voice croaked behind me.

_Well, fuck._

"Well, uhm, you see," I stammered, greatly searching for a valid excuse.

"What were you doing, Sherlock, that caused you to become this late? And I don't want any of your foolish lies," Mycroft was extremely strict about these things.

I sighed. It wasn't very effective to lie to Mycroft anyways. "I sprained my wrist and they forcefully took me to a hospital. There, that's it." I knew he'd sense that I didn't tell him the whole truth. It was worth a shot anyways.

"You're getting worse at lying, Sherlock. Now, is there something you want to tell me?"

"Honestly, I don't have any desire to tell you," Mycroft forced a smile. A "you don't have much of a choice here considering that you're the little one" smile. It was one of his many façades, but this was one that I especially despised.

I rolled my eyes and vaguely explained all that happened today.

"I stumbled as I tried to push away someone from their downfall and we just happened to have fallen. I was taken to Bart's and that was it, okay?"

"And who was this 'someone'?" Mycroft interrogated.

"You don't know him and he isn't important."

Mycroft raised his eyebrow in reply. Of course, I get stuck with one brother and he's not only extremely arrogant, but he also knows almost everyone in central London.

"His name is John. He just goes to my school. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to my room." I unlocked my bedroom door and slammed the door behind me.

_Sometimes, Mycroft was such a fucking arse-hole._


	7. Recovery

**(A/N)**

**Wowie okay thank you to everyone who supported me whilst writing this. Thank you all for the views, favourites, and reviews. Okie bye.**

**Sherlock's POV**

Redbeard frantically bolted to meet me as I entered the attic. He raced around my ankles, begging for attention. Exuberantly, the Irish Setter followed me to my bed, desperate for any sign that proved I saw him. His tail hit against everything as he paced up and down the room of excitement.

Redbeard was forced to stay locked in the attic because Mycroft wasn't fond of pets. Originally, Redbeard was young and small and I had planned to use him for an experiment. The experiment failed, but we had both grown dependent of each other. We had no one else to give the dog to, so Mycroft reluctantly agreed to keep him as long as I was the only one who took care of him.

Generally, I'd arrive home earlier which gave me time to walk and entertain him. However, I knew Mycroft would want me asleep in less than an hour, which meant, I now had to rush. I hate rushing.

**John's POV**

Harry's reassuring voice came from the far end of the infirmary. She approached my bed with her hazel eyes full of concern.

"John, are you okay? What happened?" she blurted with an uneasy tone.

I smiled at her reassuringly. "Yeah, Harry, I'm fine now, I promise."

She sighed, relieved, and took a seat on the plastic chair that accompanied the hospital bed.

"How did you even accomplish something like this?" she chuckled.

I explained to Harry everything that had happened ever since I left school, including the conversations between Sherlock and me.

"But it's really unique how he just knows everything about everyone and he doesn't even seem to consider his gift as something important-"

"-Alright, alright, calm down, John. You seem to really like this Sherlock bloke, don't you? Does that mean you'll finally get a friend that isn't me?" she teased.

I felt a blush creep up my cheeks as I shook my head. "He's not very good at making friends. I don't think he'd like me as one anyways."

Harry patted my shoulder with a warm grin on her face. "Aw, don't you worry, John. I'm sure you'd be a great friend to everyone. Just give it time, kiddo."

Doubtful, I nodded. This lead to a few minutes of solemn silence. The stillness in the air faded as Harriet checked her watch.

"Get some rest, little Hammy. I'll be sitting right outside the infirmary if you need me." she stood up, kissed my forehead, and left.

I hadn't noticed how tired I was until now. Once the room was empty of comotion, I felt my eyelids getting heavier and I drifted into a deep sleep.


	8. Bloodshed

**Sherlock's****POV**

The next few days went by in a blur. Everything was so boring. I was expected to do what everyone else did; wake up, go to school, come home, do homework, eat, sleep, and repeat. It aggravated me how this was expected of almost everyone my age. How insignificant. I visited John everyday at the hospital as an excuse to not go home. Of course, I had to go home eventually, but it was an efficient way of stalling to avoid Mycroft and his cocky demands. This, however, just like all good things, did have an inconvenience. John thought I was interested in becoming his _friend. _He was absent-minded for this matter, but there was no way of telling him I wasn't interested. Not yet, anyways.

It had been eight days of constantly visiting John. He never seemed to be able to stop talking once he opened his mouth. That's a major disadvantage, but I didn't bother correcting him. Conversing is a useless waste of breath, usually signifying inattentiveness. He'd often go on and on about his life, really passionately too. It was almost in the way Molly Hooper spoke, however, oddly enough, I felt as if I was compelled to listen. He didn't talk about his dead grandparents unlike Molly. His stories were full of adventure and wonder, and I could hear the enthusiasm in his voice. John's stories were _intriguing_.

My life had become so boring; so _ordinary_. For days, I've been longing for a case. Inevitably, the police wouldn't listen to a 15-year old, despite whether or not I know who the killer really is. On the other hand, it is truly amusing to see how they react once they realise a teenager is better at their own job.

Nevertheless, today- today was different. It all began when there had been a deafening screech from Miss Fearon's room. There were many boisterous sounds in a high school, but this one was different. This one was made of terror- my favourite. Thrilled, I found myself running towards the maths room.

I collided with a girl who stood aghast in the doorway. I assume she was the one who made that piercing shriek. I slid past her, for she showed no signs of movement according to her current state of trauma. I had to examine what happened, and I had to do it quickly before anyone else arrived to evacuate the area. This left me approximately ten minutes for the girl (Ceony Adams, 16, interest level: unknown) to recover from the shock and run downstairs to alert the headmaster. The classroom was abandoned with nothing but papers spread around the floor. I jumped over the students' desks and found my way to Miss Fearon's desk. Clutters of papers were sloppily scattered onto every corner. Pens were on the verge of rolling off the desk. I peered downwards to see the corpse of another first-year right at the foot of it. Her name was Heather Owens (taken by Brent Thompson, 16, cheerleader, uninteresting). The wound was an obvious one, a sharp weapon through the chest multiple times. There were bruises along her face, thighs, and wrists that indicated struggling. Struggling with someone much stronger and aggressive. Her shoes were moist (for it had rained the day before), implying that she had been outside at the time of her death. She was still in her cheer leading uniform, however, she was wearing boots. Thus, she had not yet gone to this morning's practice. The cause of death was plain and clear. Her time of death was around 7:45 to 8:00 am; murdered by someone stronger and a male (based on the size of his palms); she was stabbed multiple times, so it wasn't carefully planned, nor was he a professional; sexual and physical harassment is shown by the bruises. She wasn't killed in this room, primarily because the blood did not stain the tiles, and there was no blood splattered anywhere else in the classroom. There were awfully clear signs that even the coppers couldn't miss.

**3****rd**** Person****POV**

Coincidentally, Miss Jones and Headmaster Pear bolted into the classroom, halting at the corpse. Miss Jones gagged and turned away.

"What do you think you're doing here?!" Headmaster Pear was infuriated. It wasn't the first time he had been suspected of murder, but now there was an actual corpse and Sherlock was the one standing over it. In retrospect, Sherlock should have planned it all out more clearly, but when there was a case, murder was the only thing on his mind. Sherlock stuttered. There was no way of actually explaining that he had a vague idea of who killed Heather. For someone who was often well-spoken, Sherlock had no way of putting this into words.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, go to my office immediately, and don't move until I show up!" Headmaster Pear was unable to look in Sherlock's direction, mainly to avoid looking at the dead girl who was sprawled against the classroom tiles. Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes (although no one could see), and moped out of the class, dragging his feet on the way. _He _wasn't the one who killed her. That was beyond obvious. She wasn't even killed in the classroom. In addition, Sherlock had no weapon, nor did he have time to hide one if he did. Sherlock thought it was absolutely bizarre that ordinary people were able to prevail in life with such simple and irrational minds.


	9. Verdict

**Third Person POV**

The wait in Headmaster Pear's office felt as if it was hours long. Sherlock was bored. He couldn't solve the case if he wasn't even allowed to investigate the suspects. There was nothing to think about. Everything was quite clear. Miss Fearon had a reputation of being a "murderer", thus, the body was placed in her classroom as a distraction. Ordinary people would instantly believe she killed her. She would be the number one suspect despite the obvious clues left behind. Sherlock planned on being straightforward with Headmaster Pear and tell him that he was just one step away from solving the case if only Headmaster Pear allowed him to do further research.

Eventually, Headmaster Pear entered his office, looking as pale as a ghost. He was flustered and obviously extremely disturbed to see one of his students' cold, dead body in the school.

He cleared his throat and attempted to put on a strict face. "What were you doing there just then?"

"I wanted to see how she died. It's quite simple, really. I can guarantee you that none of your suspects is actually the culprit. In fact-" Sherlock began to enthusiastically explain his conclusion when Headmaster Pear interrupted him.

"Sherlock, quite simply, I don't care. I want to know why you were the only one seen with the body."

"Oh, but now you're assuming that I killed her. Not really your best line of inquiry. I told you, I investigate. Wanna see?"

"No, Sherlock, this is serious, and you have to take it seriously-"

"I am being serious. I'm close to knowing who killed her if you provide me further research. How else am I supposed to know that your wife is 8 months pregnant with your first child? You had two cups of coffee this morning because you thought she was going to be in labour last night. You dislike travelling but your wife is a big fan of it. You're afraid of large dogs and own two-no- three large cats. You have a meeting tonight that you'd rather not attend because it's your "Movie Night". Also, good luck winning your poker game on Saturday." Sherlock beamed at the startled principal.

"What- how- _what_?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I told you. I know these things."

Headmaster Pear shook his head. "These are professional detectives-" Sherlock opened his mouth to differ. "-no, Sherlock, they are professionals, and they aren't going to take advice from a 15-year old. Nevertheless, you can go 'solve the case' in your own free time. Just don't take it for granted. We don't need you to solve the mystery for us. Now, we're evacuating the school for the day, so go get your things and go home, Sherlock." Headmaster Pear began sorting the papers on his desk, initiating that the conversation was now over.

Sherlock stormed out of the room. They just expected him to solve the case as if it was some game he played, and that frustrated him. He sighed, especially loudly, and came to the conclusion that he was going to visit John for the remainder of the afternoon. On his way out, he bumped into Molly who was standing next to Ceony.

**Sherlock's POV**

"H-Hello, Sherlock." she failed at an attempt to give a cheery smile. I smirked back at her awkwardly. _I sure hope she isn't planning to converse again._

"Oh, um, Ceony here, erm, she has a friend and she think you'll both get along-"

Ceony stepped up boldly. "Hi, I'm Ceony. I've got a friend and he really wants to meet you." she paused as I remained expressionless. _God, I hope this doesn't take all day._

"Erm, James, you can come out now." she finally turned around to beckon him.

From behind a large potted fern, a short boy came forth sheepishly, glancing down at his feet. He was small, and clearly too small for the school uniform's sleeves that grew past his hands. His hair was short, dark, and ruffled at the tips. Once he peered up, he had incredibly large dark eyes that glared right at me. His firm lips curved into a smile and he nodded his head.

"Hi, I'm James. Or you can call me Jim. Either is fine." he had a soft Irish accent when he spoke. "You're Sherlock, right? I heard you're great at solving things. Uhm, is it okay if I could see how you do it?"

"Do what?" I knew exactly what he wanted me to do. Nevertheless, I was a bit dubious about whether he was actually interested.

"You know, uhm, like guessing at what people are or their future or whatever." James was now resolute about his command, for he his voice had grown louder and expressive. This didn't usually happen, but when it did I was immediately the "psychic kid". It was irritating, but it seemed like I had no other choice. With a deep exhale, I began to deduct.

"You're a vegan judging by your size and body shape. Your hairline is split on the side and you've got quite a lot of gel on it. In addition, you've got a best friend, but he's something more than a friend, isn't he? Gay. You aren't as timid as you portray yourself to be. It's just a façade. Thus, you do things involving a lot of people, but not socialising. They're more so like agreements and bargains. I'd say a drug dealer, but you don't take drugs, do you?" I pondered for a minute. What exactly would someone like him do with anonymous compromises?

James stared up at me in awe. I silently excused myself out and walked out the door, leaving the group of kids to puzzle over my intelligence.


	10. Companion

**Sherlock's POV**

Nurses began greeting me as I found my way to the infirmary. _I come here way too often. _

I entered the room John was staying in and he sat up, getting ready to ask me how my day was. His eyes gleamed when I sat down beside him, taking off my coat in the process.

"You're here early. What happened? Did you get in trouble again?" he asked uneasily.

"No, erm, a girl, Heather Owens, was found dead in Professor Fearon's classroom."

John gaped at the news. "Oh, god._Did she murder her? _I mean, I've always heard rumours, but I didn't know she was actually a killer-"

"No, John, of course Miss Fearon didn't kill her. She wasn't even killed in the school. The murderer just framed Miss Fearon because of those rumours. It's quite simple really. I've got a few suspects myself, but Headmaster Pear doesn't want me interfering."

"Did you deduct how she died? Oh, Sherlock, I wish I could've seen you solving it." his lips were firm as he glanced down, full of dismay.

"You still can." I beamed. I didn't usually work with someone else, but John being disappointed gave me a strange feeling. A feeling that made me partially distressed too. This was exactly what Mycroft was afraid of, but I wasn't going to listen to my brother my whole life. It was time for him to mind his own business.

John grinned eagerly, as if to say "really?" I nodded assuring him. He gasped ambitiously.

"But we'll need to get you out of bed first." I chuckled.

"Oh, you mean we're going _now_?"

"Yep, can you stand up?" John nodded and got up, using my shoulder as support. He took the crutches from the side of the cot. He was still in a hospital gown so I handed him his clothes from the closet and left the room for him to change.

**Third Person POV**

John limped out of the infirmary to see Sherlock waiting for him outside the doors.

"Ready?" he asked with a smirk.

"Ready." John grinned cheerfully. It was like meeting your favourite celebrity for the first time. He would actually get to see Sherlock, the genius, solving an actual murder. It was something absolutely spectacular in John's opinion. However, he soon realised that it was disrespectful to be excited about murder, so he just hid it in his head instead.

John stayed close to Sherlock as they walked across the street, He wasn't supposed to have left the hospital until next week, but he couldn't pass up the opportunity of seeing Sherlock in action. He was a bit shaky on the crutches. Sherlock noticed this and slowed down for him to catch up. He gestured for a cab and the two boys hopped in, heading towards their school.

**John's POV**

Sherlock paid the cabbie and escorted me out. The school seemed completely abandoned. There were no cars parked in the lot. The teenagers weren't loitering in the back allies. It was desolate and more deserted than it had ever been before.

"Come on, John. We don't want the body to decompose." he seemed to be trying hard to impress me. _I guess he really never gets any praise about his deducting skills. _I thought it was pretty ironic that _he _was the one trying to impress _me_. We both knew that he was the impressive one here.

I followed behind him to the school's gates. He was awfully quiet as usual. It was odd, as if he was always thinking about something. I didn't want to interrupt any of his prodigious thoughts. Everything was silent and Sherlock halted at the gate.

"It's padlocked. How are we going to get in now?" he didn't answer, but instead dug through his pocket in search of a pin. Yes, of course, we were going to break into the school. This was surely something that I never planned on doing.

In a matter of seconds, Sherlock brilliantly unlocked the gate and nudged me forward. I followed him, trying to be as unpretentious as possible.

Eventually, I found myself in the doorway of the maths room. The room was filled with the foul smells of the corpse. I found myself sicken from the repugnant odour. Even Sherlock went a bit pale.

"Jesus, Sherlock, don't they remove the bodies once they're dead?" I tried my best to not to vomit.

He quite simply nodded, still obviously discomforted by the smell. He jumped over several desks while being dreadfully loud. He scrambled to open Miss Fearon's desk. From one of the drawers he took out two procedure masks that looked like the ones they had at Bart's. He tossed one at me, with surprisingly good aim. Once I put it over my nose and mouth, I exhaled all the air I had been holding in ever since I entered the room.

"No, they didn't finish investigating yet. In fact, they'll probably be here in about half an hour." Sherlock muttered under his mask.

"Why does it smell so bad already, though? I mean, I know bodies decompose and release bad odours, but doesn't that process take about 24 hours depending on the room temperature?" Sherlock turned back to me and tilted his head as if to question my knowledge on dead people. "My mum's a nurse. She has a bunch of old textbooks just lying around the house."

We were a poor family ever since my dad left us after I was born. For years, I used to think it was my fault until Mum explained that he never wanted to start a family in the first place. There was a lot of commotion going on in the family ever since he left, and the only person I had as a mum was Harriet. I was absolutely devastated when she left to live with Dad. Although, I was much too young to understand that she didn't have a choice, but that divorce was absolutely horrid. Mum had a job as a nurse at a crappy hospital until the hospital shut down and she was unemployed (or was employed with jobs that paid minimum wage). We hardly had enough money for food, the rent, and my education, and that was how I lived my life for 15 years now. Nothing had changed. I still had to be satisfied with cold sandwiches for lunch and small dinner and breakfast proportions. Nevertheless, I wasn't the one to complain. I never really did. I just wasn't raised that way. I was still grateful despite how stale the bread would be or how often the ceiling leaked.

And after 15 years of being dirt-poor, absolutely nothing happened in my life. Occasionally, our flat would be infested with bugs or mice or something. But nothing significant ever happened to me.

However, I only knew Sherlock for a week, yet already, I've made a friend, broke my leg, broke out of a hospital, and we were already solving crimes. He was already the most significant thing that had ever happened to me.


	11. Love or Friendship?

**John's POV **

I examined Sherlock closely as he stepped in and out of the room, studying the walls and the ceiling. I looked at the body with ease now. _I guess this is what happens when your mum can't afford a babysitter so she just takes you to a morgue instead. _I heard Sherlock's footsteps echoing loudly and swiftly in the hallways. I felt my leg aching, but it didn't matter. I had to pull myself together. After all, it was _my _idea to desert the hospital.

I limped around the corpse and headed out the classroom door. From the far end of the hallway, Sherlock was twirling around, as if he was a little boy Christmas Day.

"John! John!" he finally stopped spinning and acknowledged my presence."I solved the case, John! I got it!" he yelled, probably loud enough to wake the dead body. With a huge grin, he turned to run down the stairs in full anticipation.

I assumed this happened often; the whole "leave your friend behind because you know who the murderer is" act. I didn't have much of a problem with him running off like that. I'd probably do the same if something thrilling was going on too. My only issue was how I was going to get back into the hospital. Or, essentially, how I was going to get down the stairs for now.

After painfully limping and almost falling down the stairs twice, I finally found myself across the school's library. Sherlock was kneeling beside a school laptop, rapidly typing away. He glanced up, hearing my desperate pants. His gleaming eyes faded at the sight of me. Quickly, he shut the laptop and left it lying on the floor.

"I, um, I'm...about the thing-erm-nevermind." he approached me and assisted me in walking towards the school's front doors.

"So, did you find out who killed her?" I tried to initiate a conversation to avoid these frequent awkward silences.

"Hm? What?" he seemed to have dozed off while walking. How strange. "Oh, no, not quite. But I do have a shorter list of suspects."  
"Well, who do you think did it?"

"No, that's an opinion-based question; common error."

"Okay...then who's _first_ on your list?" Once we reached the entrance of the school, Sherlock held the door open for me.

"Professor Vanquin." he beamed.

**James Moriarty's POV**

It was absolutely incredible that I got to meet _the _Sherlock Holmes. I wasn't impressed by his quite obvious deductions, of course. As a matter of fact, they were dull and boring. But he believed my act, and that was all part of the plan in the first place. It had worked out better than I expected, and that was absolutely thrilling. I entered a partially collapsed home. Sebby and I had always used it as a refuge from our parents ever since we were young.

I climbed up the stone steps and entered the chilly room. It already smelt of ash, signifying that Seb was already here.

"And what took you so long, young man?" he mocked, holding in his laughter.

"Shut up." I grabbed a cup of tea he just prepared. Once he sat down, I began telling him the good news.

"Sebby, you won't believe what happened-"

"Sherlock believed your disguise, didn't he?"

"He did more than believe it," I began to ramble. "He actually knew about you. I mean, not you personally. He's not _that _smart. I saw him going back into the school with that John Watson kid. He's totally trying to solve the case. And guess what, Seb?"

"What?" Sebastian murmured gloomily.

**Sebastian's POV**

"Aw, come on, Seb, cheer up. It's going to be fun, I promise; even more fun than that drug cartel we pretended to own."

"Yeah, but that was just the two of us…" I said under my breath, half-hoping that Jim didn't hear me.

He took a sip of his tea. "What? Anyway, Sherlock's going to solve the case and he's going to go absolutely berserk when he has no idea where all these murders are coming from. Isn't it absolutely joyful to see expressionless people go insane?"

"Mhm, great. My day was fine, Jim, thanks for asking." I replied sarcastically.

He frowned playfully in reply. "How was your day, Seb?" his frown faded into a grin.

"It was _fine_, Jim. It's worse now that you're here. What ever shall I do in the presence of this super genius master villain, as you keep reminding me?"

"It seems as constantly repeating it has worn off though, hasn't it, _evil sidekick_?"

With that, both of us burst into laughter, our chuckles echoing in the abandoned rooms.

Jim and I weren't dating, I think. We never have been. There was just a lot of history behind us. Plus, I was his only real friend. I'm not sure if I do have a crush on him. I'm not quite sure what crushes feel like. We just have an intense platonic relationship, and that was all. I believe it's only natural for me to be jealous when he constantly talks about Sherlock Holmes. After all, I was his only friend and I wanted to stay his only friend. I didn't want anyone else replacing me, so it's not jealousy over _love_, is it?


	12. H-U-M-A-N

**(A**/**N) okay so as a small little introduction for now let me just mention that Sebastian Moran **(**Seb/Sebby/etc.) is actually a character from the Sherlock Holmes books, for those of you who don't know. Basically, he's one of Moriarty's snipers, and no he's never mentioned in the show. However, it's believed that he's as close to Moriarty as John is to Sherlock and I thought it would be appropriate to just add him in there. But yes anyways thank you for all the reviews and actually reading this fic (theres over 2,000 views thank you) but yes sorry enjoy.**

**John's POV**

"Professor Vanquin? The history teacher?" Despite how often Sherlock was correct, Professor Vanquin was much too proper and good-natured to even yell at his students, let alone _kill_ one of them.

Sherlock just simply nodded. "Of course. I checked the teachers' attendance records and Professor Vanquin was the only teacher who checked in after 7:40."

"So what if he checked in late? Maybe there was just traffic?" I instantly regretted going against Sherlock, mostly in fear that not only would he bite back, but I'd also be proven wrong (in an awfully humiliating way).

"No, John! That's not the point! Why are you people all the same? How can you all be so blind? No, all the high school teachers had a meeting at 7:15 this morning. Thus, they all checked in before then. However, the school's security cameras all show him walking into school at 7:13 and him leaving school at 7:36. But there's no footage of him entering the school again. But he was in school today, yes? So, he didn't teleport to school; the footage of him entering was deleted. Now that may have been a coincidence as you call it. However, I've proven my statement by checking the state of the stairs. Her bloody body was clearly dragged to Professor Fearon's room, but there's no evidence of that because it's all been washed away. Hydrogen peroxide; a simple chemical that's bound to be found in every school. It's common knowledge that hydrogen peroxide is the most efficient way of cleaning fresh blood stains. Yesterday, there were nine bottles of hydrogen peroxide in the cupboard under the stairs, but now there's only seven.

"To put it in your terms, he entered the school through the doors near the stairs. He dragged the corpse to the nearest classroom, Miss Fearon's, and cleaned up the traces of blood with hydrogen peroxide."

Sherlock finally glanced back at me, his face enlightened.

"You may want to close your mouth now, John."

A blush ran up my cheeks when I noticed that I had be gaping in awe the whole time. It began to snow, covering Sherlock's darkness with small dots of light. Snowflakes landed on his curls, but he took no notice of it. We walked in silence with only the crunching of snow beneath us to listen to. I wanted to break this silence and any other silence that would follow. I hated when Sherlock was quiet. Of course, that was just his way of thinking, but there was no need of thinking at the moment. He needed to let himself go a little. I had one idea and one idea only of how to get him to show at least a reaction. It was risky, but tempting. I couldn't take this silence anymore.

I crept up behind him, and luckily, he was still too busy swimming in his thoughts to notice. And with that, I stood on my tippy toes (with my one well leg) and shook all the snowflakes out of his hair. He turned around, almost instantly. His face was firm, so I did fear for my life for those few seconds of being stared to death.

Soon, after a few seconds of glaring, his emotionless face became human again, and it was like turning on a newly replaced lightbulb. His frown formed a heartfelt smile. His face was now full in colour, rather than remaining pale as if it was steel. His cheeks were now pink from the frosty weather. The sun added a splash of auburn onto his hair. Although he was the same person, something about him was different. He no longer put up a wall between him and everyone else. His eyes shined brighter than they ever did before. I figured that Sherlock would often act like an automated machine. As a matter of fact, I did begin to question whether he was really human at one point. But now; now he was human. It was as if something unveiled his mask to show that William Sherlock Scott Holmes was a human being, and nothing more or nothing less. It occurred to me that that would mean that he did have emotions despite his efforts in hiding them. What could've possibly happened that made him act inhuman, though? I shook the thoughts out of my head. It didn't matter. Sherlock was currently in his human phase and I had to make the best of it.

He began to chuckle and grab a hand full of snow to throw at me.

"Hey-hey! That's not fair! I can't defend myself!" I pointed desperately at my leg. Dropping the snowball, he approached me.

"Then you should go to the hospital and get better first." he patronised in a sarcastic tone. I moaned in reply but allowed him to assist me in walking. It was quiet again, but that didn't matter. After all, both of us were happy. I just didn't want Sherlock drowning in his thoughts of the amount of different types of bullets for a handgun or something unimportant. I just wanted him to concentrate on the moment.

**3rd Person POV**

"How did you know how many bottles of hydrogen peroxide there was in the cupboard?" John broke the silence. Sherlock didn't want to tell him. He had hoped that it just flew past his head. Isn't that what always happens with normal people?

"I counted."

"Yes, I know that, but what were you doing in the cupboard?"

"Counting the bottles of hydrogen peroxide…" Sherlock knew John wouldn't believe him. Usually, he'd have careful planning when lying, but this was unexpected.

John stopped in place. Sherlock stopped too, assuming that that was what he was supposed to do.

"No, Sherlock, why were you in the cupboard?"

"It doesn't concern you." Sherlock barked back. In his defense, Sherlock was not a very open person. He wasn't going to tell John about what the bullies made him endure.

John felt Sherlock's humanity vanish as he put on his robot helmet again. John knew he really screwed up. But he wasn't aware that Sherlock didn't understand the concept of caring. Maybe if he did, he may have reacted differently. Just maybe.


	13. Ketamine

**Sherlock's POV**

We didn't utter a word all the way to the hospital. I shouldn't have snapped at John. It was always me who ruined everything. _No wonder you can't keep any friends._I didn't keep friends because I didn't need friends. I didn't aid him in walking anymore, but inconspicuously slowed down every once in a while for him to catch up

It had been at least a two hour walk from school to St. Bart's. Regardless, I didn't want to just call a taxi and get over it. The streets were pleasing and silent. This gave me much more time to think about things other than Redbeard's diet or when Mycroft was arriving home. The snow was a slight distraction, but at least other people weren't talking. John was limping beside me, clearly trying to seem as unobtrusive as possible. I peered at him from the corner of my eyes and contemplated everything that happened between us. After all, there was no murder to ponder about anymore.

I wasn't fond of people. They're all much to simple-minded. It baffled me how people were able to carry on with basic functions with such a naïve mind. There weren't many exceptions, beside me. Unfortunately, Mycroft was one of the exceptional ones too, and there wasn't any way of denying it.

John halted, causing me to stop beside him. He gave me a shy smile good bye and entered the hospital. Something inside me just didn't feel right.

"Hey, John?" he turned around cautiously.

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

I panicked. What the hell did I plan to tell him? Maybe it was just because I didn't want him to leave, or maybe I was just an idiot. Either way, I was screwed.

"I'll, uhm, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" _As if he didn't already know that, you moron. _

"Yeah, sure. Um, bye, Sherlock." and with a nod of his head, he entered the lobby of the hospital where he was almost attacked by a group of worried nurses. I turned back, walking into something awfully hard.

I looked up to see Mycroft staring down at me, his face firm and strict. _Wow, bloody good job, Sherlock. Nicely planned. _

"What do you think you're doing, _little brother_?" he asked patronisingly. I felt my face boil with rage, despite the chilly air around me.

"It's none of your business." I pushed past him overwhelmingly. _Who the fuck did he think he was to treat me with disdain?_Then, of course, it occurred to me that I had no where else to go except home. Mycroft seemed quite aware of it too for he stood behind me, empowered due to my young age. He had already called a cab, and there was no hope in arguing with him. Besides, the blizzard had grown progressively stronger and almost impossible to neglect. I hopped in first, attempting to sit as far away from him as possible. He was being a prick and he knew it. I was absolutely infuriated, but I couldn't show how enraged I was. That would portray me as weak. A thought dawned on me. _Oh god, I'm sounding more and more like Mycroft._This made me remarkably more aggravated, and I found myself huffing on the window in displeasure.

"There's no use huffing and puffing, Sherlock. You're still an idiot regardless of how you act towards anger."

"Shut the fuck up, Mycroft."

**3rd Person POV**

"How many years has it been since I taught you how to deal with feelings? I'd assume you'd recall the exact date since you're such a 'genius'-"

There was no silent second of shock. The rage took over him.

"You didn't teach me anything! You made me forget how to have emotions. You turned me into yourself. You made me a robot; a _monster_." he found himself yelling, holding back the tears in his eyes. Even the cabbie glanced back from his rear view mirror. Sherlock's eyes were bloodshot. He would have made a dreadfully sinister criminal if he used his talents against everyone. He was especially threatening when he was angry. After all, so would everyone else if they kept their anger bottled up for years.

"Stop the cab." Sherlock commanded. The taxi jolted to a stop where Sherlock resentfully ran out, slamming the door on his contemptuous brother.

The snow hit against Sherlock's shaking face. He felt a warm tear roll down his face and meet his lips. Aggressively, he wiped it away, whimpering to himself. His breathing was heavy and the parching ice wasn't making anything any better. He had enough. He was completely drained by the students, the teachers, and _especially_Mycroft. More tears slid down his gaunt face.

He never meant to hurt anyone with his remarks. He didn't know that people would take it negatively. Everyone he ever met absolutely loathed him. He finally met the one person who was fond of his presence, and Sherlock pushed him away.

Sherlock was alone. Not just isolated at the moment. He was always alone. He had no support. He had no friends. He was lonesome, and he would be for the rest of his pathetic life.

Sherlock's knees began to grow weak. He felt faint. He could no longer withstand the pain in his life. With an uncontrollable sob, he fell to the ground, the ice covering him as if he was a lifeless body.


	14. Moriarty & Moran

**(A/N) Okay hello. So I sincerely promise that there's going to be****Johnlock****in just a few more chapters. Right now, I'm just developing the plot and characters so bear with me.****Alrighty****enjoy okay. **

**Sherlock's POV**

I was awakened to the scent of ash and flame. The crackling of a fire rang in my ears.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty." said a dull voice from behind me. He had a slight American accent, which I presumed he was raised with. I opened my heavy eyelids to see not a fireplace, but a mere fire pit. It was fueled with sticks, branches, and groggy newspapers.

I turned around in the uncomfortable cot to confront the anonymous voice. There, stood a tall and slender boy. Underneath his winter coat, he was wearing what I suppose was our school uniform. There were several stains of food, ink, and something else unrecognisable. His hair was fair and messy, sticking up in random places. I examined him closer. I recognised him from school; however, he would not have remembered me. I often knew a lot more people than they knew me. His name was Sebastian Moran. The rumours say he does drugs. I glanced up and down his face. No, he never even encountered drugs.

I sat up hastily.

"Would you like some tea?" another voice came from my left. I looked to see James sitting on a cushion across the fire. "Aw, come on, loosen up a bit, Sherl." he handed me a cup of tea. "I hope two spoons of sugar is enough. Oh, and by the way, you cry _a lot_in your sleep."

"Where am I?" I ignored his remark. I put the tea on the floor and examined the room thoroughly. There were empty spaces where the windows belonged. Clearly, the building was abandoned. The wall began peeling in some corners, revealing the filthy foundation of the walls.

"Calm down, kid." Sebastian jumped over the cot and sat beside me. He put his arm around me in an obnoxious manner. "Jim here found you buried in the snow. You could've _died_. The least you can do is thank us."

"Shush, Sebby. He's clearly confused. We have to explain to him everything that happened first. And then he could thank us."

I didn't want to admit it, but I didn't know what was going on, and I didn't like not knowing.

Sebastian nodded in agreement. "Okay, mate, so basically, you somehow collapsed right in front of this building here. This is our den, and naturally, we wouldn't have invited you in (or rather carried you in) but Jim made an exception. It took about an hour for you to get warm. And now you're here, awake and alive as ever, right?"

I got up to leave, but got pulled right back down by Sebastian. "Hey, you can't leave now. What ever happened to a decent conversation? Gosh, teenagers these days." At this, James giggled in the corner, hiding in his over-sized sweater.

"What do you want?" I snarled.

"Ooh, feisty. Sherlock, the sooner you actually participate in this conversation, the sooner you'll go home." Jim said softly.

It occurred to me that I didn't want to go home. Regardless, there was still no use in disobeying. I sighed in reply. "Yes?"

"That's better. Okay, Seb, where do we start?"

"Oh, I don't know." he said simply, before beaming with joy. "Can you deduct me? Oh, please, please, please?"

I rolled my eyes. "You aren't home often. It seems as you practically live in here. You've got a crowded family; three sisters, two brothers, and a dog-no- two dogs. You're a middle child, thus your parents don't often tend to you. Hm, gay, or at least questioning. I mean, I suppose there's nothing to question about now."

Sebastian blushed at this.

"Based on your reaction, I can tell that you aren't _that_intimate with James. Or rather, you just _fancy_ him." I did overdo it to a certain extent. This created a big enough distraction for me to excuse myself out.

**Sebastian's POV**

After his crude deductions, Sherlock simply left the room without saying a word. Jim stared at me with his prominent eyes.

"Erm, I expect you want an explanation?" _How the fuck was I supposed to know he'd read me like that. I didn't even know I liked Jim. _

He nodded slowly, his lips pursed.

"Well, Jim, even you know how stupid he is. He believed your innocent act, remember? He was just acting smart." I scoffed to make my lie seem realistic. "He's rubbish. It was just a lie so he could leave. I can't possibly fancy you." I chuckled to ease him.

He smiled along, not entirely convinced. Nevertheless, I didn't need him to believe me. I just needed him to doubt Sherlock.


	15. Ecstasy

**Sherlock's POV**

I wasn't sure how long I would hold my grudge against Mycroft, but I wanted to stay as far away from him as possible at the moment. As of today, I was homeless. Nevertheless, Mycroft wouldn't let me run away from home. After all, I was still his responsibility while Mum and Dad were away. As a matter of fact, he probably already knew where I was at this exact moment. He did know every ignorant and pointless detail known to man. Of course, this would lead to a theory that I went back to my drug habits in Jim and Sebastian's "den". On the other hand, what he thought of me was beyond my concern.

What really troubled me was Redbeard. I couldn't go home, (actually, I was more than able to go home, but I didn't want to stay in the presence of my inhuman brother) but I couldn't leave Redbeard alone with Mycroft. Anyone who knew my brother knew that leaving him alone with an animal was an absolutely absurd and ghastly idea. Mycroft was extremely sadistic towards animals, since it was "wrong" to act that way towards human beings.

Although Mycroft claimed to know everything, he forgot the most important piece of evidence: the hidden door of the attic. It was unused ever since we bought the house, mainly because no one had seen it. But it seems as if sleeping in an attic did have its advantages. It was possible to open from the roof, but it blended in casually, making it almost thief-proof. _Almost._Instantly, I began heading home.

I hastily climbed upon the roof and opened the hidden hatch. I landed on my round rug with a thump. Redbeard was gloomily lying on my bed when his ears perked up. He darted right at me, barking like mad.

"Shh, Redbeard, shush." I whispered, easing his isolation. I had to hurry in collecting all of Redbeard's supplies. I brought a bag of treats and put them in my coat pocket as I clicked on his leash. Cautiously and silently, Redbeard obediently allowed me to place him still on the roof. I followed behind him and closed the door behind me.

The weather had gotten better. It was no longer snowing. Most of it was already turning into ice due to the excessive sunlight. The sun was about to set, but Redbeard still seemed overjoyed. As we walked, I pondered on where we could actually go, but nothing else rang in my mind except Bart's. I shrugged and headed over to John.

I stood across the hospital to see John leaning against the front desk beside a woman. She was talking to one of secretaries behind the table. A normal assumption would be that she was a nurse talking about John's recent "escape". However, she wasn't wearing a nurse uniform, and John's leg was rewrapped and tended to. My assumption; she was John's mum and she was retrieving him from the hospital.

Naturally, I would've avoided meeting his mum. The last thing I could deal with was another patronising adult. I leaned against the outside of the front doors. I pulled on of Redbeard's treats out of my pocket and handed it to him. I then, I took a cigarette out of my other pocket, putting it between my teeth and lit it, waiting to greet John.

To be completely honest, I had no intentions in making friends with someone. Normal people would say I was "using" John. However, my true objective was to simply defy Mycroft's attempt to make me as narcisstic as he is. And the only way I would achieve to do this is by becoming intimate with someone. The only reason why I chose John was because if I had to stay alongside someone for years, it might as well be someone who isn't a complete dimwit.

John stepped out the sliding doors with his mother following behind him. I seemed to have caught his eye, for he stopped to look at me.

"Oh, erm, hi, Sherlock." I nodded briefly in reply. Behind him came the woman.

"Oh, John. Who's this?" Swiftly, I threw my half lit cigarette onto the floor. Redbeard had finished devouring his treat, and now got up in alarm of the strangers.

"Oh, erm, Harry, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Harry, my sister." _Sister? Dammit. I should've known. John's mum was a nurse. Harry was clearly not. How could I be so absent-minded?_

"Hello, Sherlock. It's nice to finally meet you." she solely held out her hand and I hesitantly shook it.

_"… finally meet you". This meant John actually told her about me. What was there to even talk about? I don't think I was as 'ingenious' (as he called me) as he often overemphasized._

"Erm, Sherlock, who's this?" John pointed at Redbeard who now was pacing around my ankles.

"His name is Redbeard." I rubbed his head to ease his excitement.

It was awfully uncomfortable to meet other people. _How do normal people cope with making "friends" anyways? _

John looked up at his sister with his hopeful eyes. "Can Sherlock and I just stroll around the park?"

Harry raised her eyebrows before replying. "Sure, alright. Just be careful, okay?"

John nodded in reply and handed Harry one of his crutches. "I'll be fine without it, I'm better now." he said reassuringly to Harry.

"Alright, little Hammy. I'll drop this off at Mum's and tell her where you've been, okay?" she ruffled John's hair and beckoned a cab.

**3rd Person POV**

"_Hammy?_" Sherlock emphasised.

"Forget it," John chuckled. "You didn't tell me you had a dog, though." he put his fingers beneath Redbeard's nose, allowing him to become familiar with his scent. Clearly, John did know a thing or two about animals.

"You didn't tell me you had a sister." Sherlock smirked.

Did he actually feel _happy_? This was certainly a rare occasion, especially around other people. As a matter of fact, Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he felt happy or at least genuinely smiled. The closest he had ever gotten to "happiness" was with Redbeard (overlooking his past drug habits that lead him into more depression when the drugs wore off). However, with Redbeard, he still had the tension of his home and the massive weight Mycroft left on his shoulders. But now, although Sherlock was not aware of it, he was in high spirits and nothing was going to ruin it; except of course, _Mycroft_.

It was a hazy, starless night now. It had gotten chillier, but John was much too wrapped up in conversation with Sherlock to take it into full consideration. The pain in his leg had even almost completely faded for the moment as they strolled around the park.

"...and then the detective announced that it had been the mother who did it so I-" Sherlock cut off his story, in which John was listening to intently. Sherlock was no longer looking at John with his twinkling eyes. Rather, he stopped dead in his tracks and was now starring straight ahead in full absorption. John attempted to catch his gaze, but he wouldn't budge. He looked ahead to see a dark figure standing at least a few yards ahead, beyond the park's lampposts.

"Sherlock..." he was now breathing heavily."Who-who is that?"

Sherlock, completely disregarding John's angst and Redbeard's anxiety (who had been let off his leash to enjoy his walk), sprang towards the mysterious figure. This left Redbeard and John pondering on whether or not they should follow him.

"How dare you fucking follow me?" Sherlock raised his fist and lunged at him unsuccessfully. The man held on tightly to Sherlock's wrist, making it almost impossible for him to break free from his grasp. "Let go of me, Mycroft." Sherlock was now calm and serene, which was much more fearful than when he showed his anger.

"You've rebelled against me, Sherlock, and _I'm_your only legal guardian now. So you _have_to obey me."

Sherlock's wrist began to ache from how firmly Mycroft was holding it.

"I've still got Mum and Dad, so I -"

"No, you don't."

"_What_?"

"Mum and Dad died in a plane crash in September coming home." Inevitably, Mycroft was completely vacant when breaking the news to Sherlock.

"No- no, you're lying-" Sherlock's hand now slipped out Mycroft's grip.

Mycroft stared back at his shaking brother with no sympathy or warmth.

Sherlock, then at that moment, did something inconceivable; he flung his arms around Mycroft's waist and hugged his brother as tightly as he could manage. Mycroft no longer kept his face blank. Warmth flew around his chest. His cold, dark heart was momentarily warm and beating once again. Mycroft had only one weakness; a weakness he had been hiding all his life. And that weakness was love.


	16. Existentialism

**3rd Person POV**

Mycroft remained still, his younger brother's arms wrapped around him tightly. His face, however, was no longer as blank and expressionless. He was surprised, just as much as John was confused. Sherlock then reluctantly backed away from Mycroft, his arms dropping to his sides.

He turned around and beckoned John to come forth. Redbeard following close behind him, John limped towards Sherlock and his brother obediently.

"Mycroft, I don't want to become you. For once, I don't want to be considered abnormal. I refuse to let you control me." Sherlock slipped his hand into John's. He knew this would aid him in proving his point against Mycroft; Sherlock no longer wanted to be insensitive.

**John's POV**

Sherlock's snug hand settled into mine, our fingers interlocked. I felt his warm and gaunt fingers around my own. I dared not to say anything or move away. If Sherlock was acting strangely, I was sure he had a reason for it. Although, I was awfully confused. I had no idea who this man was, nor what Sherlock's feelings were towards him.

With that, he and I walked past the man, with Redbeard at our heels. We left the abandoned park and Sherlock let go of my hand to signal a cab.

"Sherlock, who was-"

"Do you know any hotels nearby?"

"Hotels? What? I mean, sure, there's the one-wait- why do you need a hotel? You can't stay at a hotel, Sherlock. Just go home-" it was absolutely absurd for a 15-year old to live in a hotel alone.

"John, listen, he was my brother. I _can't_go home."

We hopped into the cab. It drove on with no given destination. I pondered for a minute.

"166 Vauxhall Bridge Road." Sherlock furrowed his brow. "You're not going to a hotel." It wasn't a bright idea, of course, for Mum and I hardly had enough money for ourselves. As a matter of fact, I was faintly anxious. Sherlock and his brother seemed to have come from a much wealthier family. My house wasn't much, and it would probably be uncomfortable for him.

I checked my mobile to distract myself from my thoughts. It was already 1:23 am. I sighed and glanced out the window.

...

I dug through my pockets, in search of the house keys. Sherlock stood hushed behind me, as if he was just a figment of my imagination; a ghost, even. I cautiously pushed the door open, and its familiar creaking rang in the hallway of the building. A strong aroma of liquor flooded out of the flat. Sherlock seemed to have taken no notice, or maybe he just preferred not to show it.

Mum went on one of her binge drinking periods again tonight. And this time, it was worse than usual. Our crappy television set was on, playing a pathetic soap opera. In front of it, she was lying on the couch, fast asleep. The remainder of the whole house was pitch black. I left Sherlock standing amidst the doorway as I went to shut off the TV.

"Sorry." I whispered. "You can, erm, take off your shoes, and your, uhm, coat too, if you'd like."

Submissively, he hung his coat over the coat rack and slipped off his shoes as I did the same.

He was still wearing his school uniform. The navy blue tie was loosened around his neck. The first two buttons of his white dress shirt were unbuttoned, making him seem as if he was a "rebellious teenager" as they called it. I lead him to my room, and he followed without saying a word.

Sherlock walked in and examined the room thoroughly as I turned on the lights.

"Um, you can sleep here, Sherlock." I pointed towards Harriet's bed. She wouldn't come here often, so the bed hadn't been slept in for about a year now. "Would you like a pair of pyjamas or...?"

Sherlock shook his head swiftly in reply. "I'm not going to sleep yet." he replied unconvincingly. Redbeard immediately plopped himself on the carpet and dozed off, ignoring any other sound around him. Sherlock jumped onto my wide windowsill that was partially covered with books. Avoiding them completely, he perched himself on it and stared out the window.

...

**3rd Person POV**

It had been about three hours since John settled himself into bed to go to sleep. As a matter of fact, he was fast asleep. However, him being a natural light sleeper, he was awoken to the sound of silent sobs. At first, he believed it was his mum, who had been living with mild depression. Then, it occurred to him that she wouldn't wake up until sometime in the afternoon. The cries were coming from the far corner of his bedroom.

John sat up in his bed to see a shaking figure settled against his window. He got out of his bed to see that the figure was Sherlock, and he was _crying_. As unfair as it sounded, John was genuinely stunned to see Sherlock Holmes, the one everyone called "Machine" and "Emotionless", was showing actual expressions.

John limped towards the sobbing Sherlock, having no need for his crutches. He slipped onto the windowsill behind Sherlock in as comforting of a manner as possible. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso. This allowed him to rest back and lay his head on John's chest with tears still streaming down his face.

However, his shaking ceased and his pulse returned to normal. John was the only thing that kept Sherlock serene (other than the drugs he used to take, which weren't entirely "calming").

Sherlock, who hadn't slept in days, or even weeks, finally slept against the warmth and comfort of his new friend.

...

John woke up at about 10:27 to see that both he and Sherlock were late to school. He was going to get up, but he saw the face of Sherlock, laying on him. His tense facial features were no longer as strict. His eyes were relaxed along with his breathing. Sherlock's face was innocent and soft. His gaunt features no longer looked cold and harsh. Sherlock looked genuinely humane. He had turned around during the night, and he was now on top of John, resting his head on his shoulder. Their chests came in contact and John felt Sherlock's heart beating against his body. Sherlock was human. He had a human heart. He felt human emotions. He was an exceptional human being, and John knew that. He smiled softly and drifted back to sleep.


	17. John Hamish Watson

**3rd Person POV**

At about noon, Sherlock jumped awake, resulting in John to wake up in alarm.

"John, what time is it?" Sherlock was wide awake, as if he hadn't just woken up. John, on the other hand, was much wearier and quite unclear.

"I don't know, Sherlock. Why does it matter? We can't go to school at this point anyways." John muttered, attempting to open his eyes.

"That's the point, John. We aren't supposed to go to school."

"I don't understand." John replied simply. He didn't want to put any effort in solving one of Sherlock's riddles again.

"We need to talk to Professor Vanquin today. Come on, John, we don't have that much time."

John rolled himself off the uncomfortable windowsill unenthusiastically and got dressed as Sherlock cared for Redbeard.

"I'm going to leave Redbeard here. Tell your mum not to go into your room. He doesn't like strangers if he isn't properly introduced."

John nodded along, still half-asleep. Together, they walked out of the building, a gust of the strong wind hitting against their necks.

"What do you need to talk to Professor Vanquin for anyways?"

"I'm not going to talk to him-_you_ are."

"Me? I don't even know why we're going to see him?"

"Which is exactly why I'm going to explain it to you on the way there."

…

**John's POV**

By the time we arrived at the school, the students were being dismissed and most of the buses were already leaving. I approached Professor Vanquin who was leaving the school in a hurry.

"Oh, hello, John. Welcome back." he continued walking on, without even glancing back.

"Hey, Professor, I was wondering if you could go over all the lessons I missed?" I stood in front of him, resulting in him to stop in place. His trench coat was hanging off his shoulder. He was clearly in a rush, and it was Sherlock's job to find out why.

"Erm, maybe tomorrow, okay?" he began to rush to his car as I followed, just as Sherlock instructed.

"Tomorrow is Saturday..."

He stopped and exhaled deeply. "John, I can't do it today alright?"

"Why not?" I knew I was pushing it to a certain extent, but it was mandatory.

"I just can't. Go check the school website or something." Hastily, he hopped into his car and drove off, abandoning me in the parking lot.

I approached Sherlock who stood upon two other boys.

"Oh, here comes little Johnnie." One of them looked at my direction. He had a strong Irish accent that was almost impossible to miss. His hair was combed back, as if he was some 15-year old corporate of a company. Next to him stood a boy who was much more improper. His parted hair fell over his eyes in an unkempt matter. He was holding his leather jacket in one hand. His uniform sleeves were rolled up and crinkled.

"Hey, Sherl, how was your night? Sebby and I heard that you had _fun_with John boy here." the Irish boy sang mockingly. The other boy, "Sebby" as they called him, giggled.

"Um, Sherlock, who-?"

"-I see you're feeling much better, John. I'm surprised neither of you are having difficulty walking." Both boys burst into laughter at the accented boy's remark. "Anyways, I'm Jim, hello, and this is Sebastian. I call him Sebby, but only I'm allowed to call him that." he held out his hand, in a strangely kind matter. I looked up at Sherlock, who was strictly glaring at both of them. Hesitantly, I shook his hand.

"Jim says you two weren't at school today because you two were doing _the thing_."

"What thing?" One part of me didn't want to know. The other part wanted to punch both of them in the face.

"Oh, come on, Johnnie. No need to act dumb. After all we're all friends here, right?" Jim lifted a brow, as if he was certain that we just became companions.

Sebastian leaped between Sherlock and I. "He means _sex_." he whispered. I felt a blush rush to my cheeks. Sebastian backed away with one step in reverse.

"Aw, look, Seb, lil' Johnnie is blushing." Jim teased. He walked over and pinched my cheeks tauntingly before walking past us. My urge to punch him was really increasing.

Without saying a word, Sherlock walked on.

"Sherlock-"

"-Shut up, John."

I followed behind him as best as I could without making a noise. He walked into the school quickly and led me down the hall. He opened what I presumed was his locker. It was shockingly neat. However, it was mostly filled with science and philosophy textbooks rather than actual school books. He pushed the books aside and revealed a latch. He unlocked it, revealing several orange pill bottles. Sherlock grabbed one and reset everything back to its original position.

He noticed my uncertainty of the matter. "Antidepressant." he pointed out simply before putting it in his coat pocket. Before he shut the locker, he put in a small notebook and hid it between the textbooks.

"What's that?" I hadn't ever noticed it with him, and I was awfully interested to say the least.

"It's for the cases."

"Can I see?"

He stood still for a moment, pondering. He finally handed me the notebook, and I flipped through it.

It was full of disorganised drawings and words that were almost impossible to read. I finally flipped towards the back to see that his writing got progressively neater. The drawings and scribbles faded and only words covered the page. They were _poems_. Some were in different languages, others were recited by other poets. On the last written page of the notepad, there was a poem titled "John".

_**John**_

_There is nothing I desire most_

_Than to always be by your side_

_No matter how much I boast_

_No matter how much I lied_

_I am not better off alone_


	18. Ceony Adams

**John's POV**

I glanced up, expecting to see Sherlock staring down at me. However, I found myself in the vast emptiness of the hallways. _Was this poem about me? And why did Sherlock go through all the troubles of writing a poem that was so much unlike him?_Everyone knew Sherlock was much better off alone. There was absolutely no reason why he'd need anyone to accompany him. If anyone knew Sherlock, they'd know that he was the most misanthropic person in the whole city of London.

I, naturally, was awfully interested about Sherlock's idea of poetry. He was, of course, a great poet, if that was what he preferred to call himself. Sherlock was indeed gone. I assumed he must have just returned back to my flat, for that was the only place he could go. I walked out the school to see that a majority of the teenagers were no longer loitering by the parking lot. I tucked Sherlock's notepad under my shoulder and signalled a cab.

I opened the familiar worn-out door that was oddly unlocked. Mum was at work. She often overdid herself just for extra pay. I entered my bedroom to see neither Sherlock nor Redbeard. Instead, I found myself staring at the desolation of my room. Sherlock probably wouldn't approve of me constantly checking up on him. Knowing him, that would probably tick him off more than the human race.

Desperately, I plopped myself onto my bed and flipped through Sherlock's notebook once again. I attempted to read his foreign poems with my lack of knowledge on French, Russian, and what I guessed was Swedish. I was getting awfully curious, so I decided to use the most reliable unreliable source I had; Google Translate.

I tried this with the rest of the poems that were legible (or in a valid language). I do admit, I was being terribly nosey to a certain extent, but after all, he _did_hand over his notebook for me to read. I eventually came to a poem titled _Vénéneux_when I heard my mobile buzz on the dresser. I didn't often get messages, but if I did, they'd usually be from Mum or Harriet, or sometimes just the phone company.

I leaned over and grabbed it to see that it wasn't from the usual people. Instead, it was from an unknown number. It read:

**Hello, John ^-^ I'm****Ceony****. Call me when you get this?**

**XoxCeony**

I was at this point a bit confused to say the least. I didn't even know a Ceony. Yet, it most likely wasn't a wrong number. I sighed. What other choice did I have?

**3rd Person POV**

John reluctantly rang Ceony. After all, he didn't have anything else to do with his life anyways.

"Hello, John?" Ceony's voice was clear and soft. She spoke with a proper accent, but it was full of care and friendliness.

"Erm, hello..."

"Heh, sorry, I'm Ceony. I'm a good friend of Sherlock's. I thought he would've mentioned me."

"I guess not." Sherlock? Having friends? John was having an awfully hard time wondering why he's never heard of her.

"Oh, well, I thought that any friend of Sherlock's could be my friend too. Is that okay?"

"Oh, uhm, yeah, of course. Sure." John was awfully awkward, especially when it came to talking with new people.

"Well, a couple friends and I are going to get some ice cream. I mean, it may be a bit cold, but ice cream is fun, right? Anyways, want to join?"

John was a bit surprised at this invitation. It had been _way_too long since he's gone out and made real friends. "Um, yes, sure. Alright."

"Great, I'll pick you up at four?"

"Sure, bye."

"See ya, John."

John sat still in the silence of his room for a few moments. What did people even _wear_ to an ice cream parlour? He knew he really needed to socialise more.

…..

A few minutes later, Ceony pulled up at John's flat. He walked out with jeans and an oversized hoodie, which was basically what he wore whenever he'd head outside. She sat behind the wheel of a reflective, black Ford. The back windows were tinted whilst the front windows were wide open.

"Come on, John!" she laughed. In her left hand was a lit cigarette, and John wondered how her voice could remain so affectionate and warm despite what she was doing to it. Hesitantly, John hopped into the front seat to hear faint giggles from the back seat. He looked back to see both Jim and Sebastian hiding their faces from laughter.

"Oh, don't worry; they're not coming with us. I'm just here to drop them off. After all, I am the oldest." she lied.

"It's nice to see you again, Johnnie." he heard Jim's voice from behind him. _This was going to be a long and__agonising__car ride._

…..

**John's POV**

Ceony parked the car right beside the ice cream parlour. Entering the decorous building, I notice the large variation of our attire. She wore black, leather leggings with boots to match. On top, she wore an inky purple crop-top that was hardly appropriate for London weather. We sat ourselves down at the far corner of the parlour as I wondered where the rest of the gang was.

It seemed like Ceony somehow read my mind for she informed me, "It seems as the rest of them can't come..." she pouted, "You know, because London traffic. But that doesn't mean we can't have fun, right?" she beamed.

"Hm, yeah, I guess so."

"Hey, come on; stop being such a glum plum, John. Oh! I have an idea. Okay, so you know how we're practically destined to be friends, right? Alright, so friends are supposed to know, like, everything about each other. So I've got an idea that we could play 20 Questions. It'll be lots of fun, I promise." she begged. "Okay, so I'm first (because, you know, ladies first). So, how long has it been since you've been invited to something involving people?" she then added cheekily. She had quite a powerful smile that looked impossible to say no to.

I glanced up, as if I really needed to think of this. "A while." She giggled in response.

"It's your turn."

I pondered for a minute, thinking of the most useless question that had come to my mind. "Do you really have a driver's license?"

She shrugged playfully. "Hah, no, you got me there. I don't even have a permit yet. Okie, so, have you ever had a boyfriend?" she teased. I simply shook my head. "How about a girlfriend?" I considered my answer and shook my head once again. She gave a spirited gasp. "_Really?_ Okay, well have you ever shagged someone?"

"Nope."

"Oh my god. How have you never dated someone? You're, like, the cutest little button ever. Or wait, are you _gay_?"

I shook my head no. "I don't think so."

"Then, I suppose you wouldn't mind if I did this..." she leaned over and pressed her lips against mine. Her breath was warm and smelled of watermelons rather than the cigarette she smoked earlier. Her tongue slid to mine, feeling its way around my mouth. I noticed her eyes were closed, so I shut mine as well. I heard a faint moan from the back of her throat, reassuring me that I wasn't half bad as I thought. There was guilt and pleasure and every other emotion running through me. But it was bound to happen. After all, it was my first kiss.


	19. Siren

**John's POV**

Ceony deepened the kiss before reluctantly pulling away. This left me with the burden of emotions in my chest. I felt my face burning against the crisp air of the ice cream parlour. Guilt fluttered in my chest (although I wasn't quite sure why). It wasn't supposed to be a big deal; after all, everyone my age did this-_except for__Sherlock_. It then occurred to me, _had Sherlock ever gotten a girlfriend? Was he even interested in girls? Was he even interested in love?_

"Are you _sure_you've never kissed anyone?" Ceony teased, diverting me from my brooding thoughts.

**3rd Person POV**

Knowing Sherlock's antisocial behaviour, John made no effort in attempting to communicate with him over the weekend. Nor did he know how. Sherlock was not fond of people and society in general. He did not give anyone his cell number or anything else that allowed them to talk to him. What Sherlock did at home was beyond John's competence. Yet, John knew more about Sherlock than anyone else did. He knew of his late parents, his brother, and his brilliant deduction skills.

Sherlock had also remained home in hopes of avoiding any form of civilisation. He was fully aware that John had read his poems (or at least most of them). He was certainly not planning to discuss it with him, however. John wasn't supposed to understand him. Sherlock hated showing weaknesses. This, he learned himself, rather than being thought by Mycroft.

Mycroft and Sherlock never had too much of a quarrel. Their fights were typical and soon forgotten about. Although Mycroft did not show it, he truly loved Sherlock dearly. He knew he had to somehow comfort his younger brother, especially after the unfortunate events that happened to their parents. But he just simply didn't know how. He was not a person of comfort or affection, but he tried his best. With Sherlock's defiance, it was almost impossible to get remotely close to him. However, Mycroft refuse to give up. Sherlock did not eat often, but every once in a while, Mycroft would place a tray of food at the foot of his door. Unfortunately, Sherlock was much too busy with his mind to comprehend where the food came from.

John spent a majority of his weekend with Ceony. However, he still had a shred of guilt fluttering in his chest. Maybe it was because he had never gotten a girlfriend before. Or maybe it was because he still had unanswered questions about Sherlock that he chose to avoid. John felt as if something was missing. It was like the feeling of having a song stuck in your head and not remembering its name. Or perhaps feeling of being homesick. Other than this constant feeling of insignificance, John was indeed carefree and delighted around Ceony. She made him forget his worries, just as Sherlock had at one point. Although he forgot everyone else around Ceony, John failed in forgetting Sherlock. This was because of how compelling and perplexing he seemed to John. Anyone who would have known Sherlock as much John did would be just as intrigued. He was just simply an interesting person.

…..

On a heavy Monday morning, John had somehow, despite his drowsiness, gotten out of bed and arrived at his dull high school. Sherlock had not attended school that day, nor any day for the rest of the week. However, small signs, such as Professor Vanquin's arrest and wet footprints leading to Sherlock's locker everyday helped John understand that Sherlock was okay- or at least as okay as he usually was. The distance allowed him to eventually stop worrying about him as often. After all, Sherlock was capable of caring for himself. John's week was preoccupied with Ceony for she absorbed all of John's attention. Yet, he didn't mind. He loved her perkiness and she loved his sheepishness.

Friday had been the day Sherlock finally came to school. His olive complexion stood out more than usual. Dark circles surrounded his eyes that did not fail to glisten. His face was grave, yet dull. Something was clearly wrong.

John, much too wrapped up around his new girlfriend, had no time to greet Sherlock, even if he wanted to. After the last bell of the day, it seemed as if a majority of the students had spontaneously disappeared, full of the weekend craze. John was finally alone as he calmly emptied his books into his locker. Turning around, he jumped to see Sherlock practically towering over him.

"Oh, hello, Sherlock." John gave a small smile.

"John, I need you to listen to me, okay? Ceony isn't who you think she is." Sherlock spoke in a firm manner as he leaned closer to John. "She's manipulating you, John. You have to-"

"No, Sherlock, she's not. I didn't think you'd have such a hard time accepting us. Unless you like her too?"

"John, this has nothing to do with me. You have to trust me. I'll explain later. We don't-"

"What are you two boys talking about so seriously, huh?" Ceony stood sweetly at the end of the hallway.

"Look, Sherlock, whether you accept it or not, Ceony and I love each other."

"It's not love, John. Can't you see? She's not who you think she is. Her 'love' is mendacious." Sherlock began raising his voice, allowing his tone to reach Ceony. She simply raised an eyebrow in response.

"Oh really? Well, tell me, Sherlock, what do_you_ know of_love_?" John snapped. He stormed past Sherlock, grabbed Ceony's hand, and left Sherlock standing amidst the deserted hallways.


	20. The Missing Piece

**(A/N) Okay, first of all, I'm super sorry I haven't updated in a long time. There was just a lot of things going on, but on the plus side, I'm going to comic-con to meet David Tennant and Billie Piper and a whole lot of people. It's just super great okay. So yes anyways enjoy.**

_~The Day Before Christmas Break~_

**Sherlock's POV**

"Now, class, don't forget to study for your test on anti-derivatives on the day you're back from break. Sherlock, pay attention, please." My eyes shifted from the clock onto Miss Panela's sharp facial features.

"Congratulations." A collection of groans came from behind me. I couldn't help myself.

"Excuse me?"

"On your baby."

"My baby-?! I don't- I'm not-"

"Yes, you are."

"Sherlock Holmes-!"

The last bell of this year finally rang, and I couldn't help but grin at the maths teacher's desperation.

A majority of the students stampeded the hallways to go home and celebrate their stupid holidays.

_Christmas is a time of special importance marked by adherents to the religion of Christianity. Religion; something I did not prefer to occupy my time with._

I opened my locker to see yesterday's papers. _TWO SERIAL SUICIDES. _Of course it wasn't suicide. Even someone as stupid as London's police force could've noticed the obvious clues.

As I shut my locker, a voice came from behind me.

"Hi there, Sherlock."_Greg __Lesterade__, 17, uninteresting._I had done his homework a few times during English because anything is better than having to listen to Professor Yendell's teaching. "So I was wondering, I mean, I know you don't really like this stuff, but I wanted to know if you'd like to come to a New Year's Eve party I'm hosting. But you know, only if you want to..."

"You're right."

"What?"

"I don't like parties. As a matter of fact, I'd rather do all your homework than socialise with extremely dull teenagers."

"Oh, alright, no hard feelings, okay. You can call me or something if you change your mind." He left just as quickly as he had arrived. Parties were beyond my concern. There were two serial suicides murders, and I wasn't going to waste a fantastic opportunity at a party.

I locked everything up in my locker and left the school with a stack of old papers. I struggled to keep them in my hands for they were constantly slipping out of different directions. My break was going to be full of studying. Not school related studying of course. Forensic studying. I knew that this year, there would be a lot more relatives on Christmas. This was mostly because they would offer us their condolences, which I, personally, would refuse. "I'm sorry" and "Are you okay?" did not necessarily make anything better. It was more of an act of pride and reputation rather than concern.

I pushed open the vast brass doors of the school, struggling to maintain the papers in order with one arm and attempting to keep the door open with the other. I then felt a hard shove from behind me, resulting in all the documents to go flying out the door.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going, _freak?"_I turned back. _Philip Anderson, 15, uninteresting. _

I rolled my eyes. _Neglected by family, bad grades, aggressive. _Anderson, the captain of our school's football team, stood amidst the rest of his bland friends.

_"Bullies" choose to attack their "victims" in groups; boosts their ego._

"I'm going home. I assume you haven't gone _home _in..." I paused to scan him. "Two days?"

He scowled. "Maybe it's because I have a life and a girlfriend- unlike you!"

I remained expressionless at his taunt. "A girlfriend? Not really my area. A life? Well, considering the circumstances of how I'm still breathing, I do believe I have a life."

He clenched his jaw. "So if a girl isn't your area- does that mean you're _gay?!"_The crowd behind him broke out in laughter.

"Actually, I prefer to not waste my time with useless people."

"So you are gay then?"

I sighed at his stupidity. "If you'll excuse me, halfwits, I'm going to do something useful with my life." I turned to collect what was left of the papers.

"What the fuck did you call me?!" Another shove came from behind me. I fell on my face only to hear a loud snap from my nose. Immediately, warm blood flooded the area.

I looked up to see that the group now had me cornered. With my luck, I was probably better off dead.

"_STOP IT!" _A voice yelled from behind them. I attempted to look past them, but my vision remained blurry.

This seemed to have scattered the lot. The figure ran towards me and became clearer; _John ._I blinked several times to reassure myself that I wasn't actually just hallucinating.

"Sherlock- oh god- Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"No you're not. Your nose is bleeding. Here, get up."

I looked at him for a moment until I noticed that my nose was still dripping blood. John led me out of the school as we walked in silence. All the papers that fell out of my head seemed to have been swept away with the December wind. The rest of the papers that remained in my grip were either ripped or stained with blood.

I didn't bother asking John where we were going. As a matter of fact, for once, I actually didn't know where we were going. He looked back once and winced, most likely at my nose. I didn't wipe it off with my sleeve; Mycroft would notice.

He looked back again, but this time he approached me. He pulled out a small kit from his pocket. Inside it ranged things from alcohol swabs to bandages. John pulled out a tissue and wet it to clean the mess around my nose.

**3rd Person POV**

"Oh, stop it." John broke the silence.

"Stop what?"

"You're being all mysterious and silent again."

"I don't see anything wrong, John."

"Hold still." John sighed. He brushed his finger around Sherlock's nose. "You're lucky. It's not broken."

Sherlock flashed him a timid smile.

"Look, Sherlock, Ceony and I broke up," he paused, hopeful for a reaction. "It's fine. It was going to happen anyways; we were drifting apart."

They began walking again. This time, Sherlock caught up to his pace.

"Okay, Sherlock. You were right. I'm sorry. Is that what you want to hear?" He couldn't help but grin at John's attempts of getting even a retort out of him.

"I'm always right."

"Alright, calm down there, Einstein. No need to get so ahead of yourself." And just like that, they slowly dissolved into laughter.

For years, Sherlock never had a genuine friend. He didn't have the experience of play dates or birthday parties as a child. But this time, although he was not yet aware of it, he had finally found his missing piece; and it was John_._


End file.
